The word
which comes most insistently to mind at the conclusion of this charming,
meandering film from Ishii Katsuhito is luminous―as if the light
which emanates from the screen is cleaner, brighter, or sharper than it
needs to be, and carries with it an extra dimension of warmth and beauty.
And yet somehow it is difficult to account for this. Certainly the sunset
which shimmers across the final few scenes is itself beautiful, as are the
scenery and cinematography throughout. These, however, are not enough in and
of themselves to explain the feeling of radiance which permeates this film.
The performances, too, while sincere, and the characters, while eccentric
and engaging, are simple components of a project which manages to transcend
its pieces. The sum of Cha no aji is indeed much, much greater than
the total of its parts; and that sum is, in a word, 'luminous'.

The story
is simple, wandering, almost formless―but this of course is not to imply
that little happens. Much does to the Haruno family, around whom the story
revolves: the father (Miura Tomokazu) is supportive as his wife (Tezuka
Satomi) returns to her careeer as an animator; the son (Sato Takahiro)
experiences a blossoming young love; the grandfather (Gashuin Tatsuya)
passes away, after completing a series of watercolour paintings for each
member of the family; and the young daughter, Sachiko (Banno Maya),
encounters, is haunted by, and finally overcomes an enormous, silent version
of herself which follows her wherever she goes. As the film unfolds, the
uncle (Asano Tadanobu) rekindles an old love affair, and the manga-artist
brother-in-law (Todoroki Ikki) produces a music video as a birthday present
to himself. As ordinary as these episodes may sound, the charm of this film
comes more directly from its way of presenting its content than from the
various byways and backwaters into which its story diverts itself. After
all, though, it is to some degree the seeming triviality of those byways
themselves which provides their attraction, capturing, as they do, the daily
reality of family life in a rural community. And yet this film is not by any
means a documentary-styled exploration of daily life, reality, or rural
Japan―on the contrary, it is a lyrical, pastoral fantasy as humorous as it
is touching, as compelling as it is slow, but first and foremost a beautiful
and poetic opportunity to savour a particular, visual aesthetic that comes
close to presenting a truly 'Japanese' cinema.

The
aesthetic is informed by a rich colour palette which captures the look of
rural Japan―greens, pinks, blues abound, with tremendous depth in the
cinematic composition. The cinematography by Matsumoto Kosuke deserves
special mention here, for the masterful way the film presents its range of
light and locations. The camera work is mature, fluid, and calm―in some ways
it calls to mind aspects of classic films, such as Ichikawa Kon's Sasame
yuki (The Makioka Sisters, 1983) or Inugamike no ichizoku (The
Inugami Clan, 1976), filmed so remarkably well by Hasegawa Kiyoshi. This
is especially true in the opening sequence, as the son, Haruno Hajime
(literally, 'The Start of Spring'), walks through a grove of cherry trees,
their petals cascading around him in an evocation of Japan that is somehow
fresh despite its perfectly stereotypical obviousness. The combination of
mise en scene, light, acting that permits us to identify with the
emotional mood of the character, and the lushness of the musical score (by
Tempo Little) works to bring us into the very middle of this rural space.
This is a space with which the film feels most comfortable, and with good
reason. As the film presents it here, rural Japan is safe, welcoming,
supportive, and tolerant of individual quirks. Fortunate for the characters,
for they are thoroughly replete with quirks―entertaining, odd, but
distinctly endearing.

And yet the
film doesn't dwell on these. Rather, it allows the characters a remarkable
amount of dignity as we move ever closer to knowing them. But to use the
word 'dignity' risks characterising the film as dramatic or distant―far from
it, it is humorous, gentle, and warm. Its method of delineating its
characters is relaxed, but also natural. We gain a familiarity that comes
from watching this family, collectively and individually, live,
rather than from conversing with them or debating with them. This is both
peaceful and informative. We know the grandfather's playfulness as he 'spies' on his granddaughter, slamming closed the window through which he
watches her every time she turns her head toward him, only to open it again
moments later―a game the two play at for a long time in the sleepy light of
midday. In fact it is this game which brings true pathos to the film, as
later it becomes the vehicle by which Sachiko discovers her grandfather's
passing. We feel we know this grandfather more thoroughly by our watching,
and feel his death more deeply, than if we had had him 'explained' to us by
direct dialogue. From this comes the power of the film―its ability to bring
us into the lives of its characters is subtle but undeniable.

By virtue
of this aspect, Ishii, who wrote as well as directed and edited, has crafted
a film in some respects capable of rivalling the domestic dramas of Ozu
Yasujirō. The title, of course is reminiscent of
two of Ozu's films, Ochazuke no aji (Flavour of Green Tea Over Rice,1952),
and his final, Sanma no aji (Flavour of Mackerel, 1962). This is not
simply coincidental. While Cha no aji is a lighter, more colourful,
and far more dynamic offering than those in Ozu's oeuvre, in
emotion and characterisation it stands as both a witty parody and respectful
homage to that earlier master. Cha no aji continues Ozu's fascination
with the family while tempering some of his pessimism; it accepts his
pastoral view of rural Japan, while avoiding the elegiac air with which he
presented non-urban space. Perhaps most of all, it has learned from Ozu the
value and validity of allowing characters simply 'to be' on screen,
unencumbered by the need to explain, explain, and explain again what they
are thinking, feeling, or doing. Silence, Cha no aji has learned, has
an eloquence that can occasionally transcend that of words.

But still,
we have one word for this film which its silences cannot best, and that word
after all is 'luminous'. Luminous cinematography, luminous scenery, luminous
warmth and beauty―a truly beautiful film that, at 143 minutes, is far too
brief.

About the Author

Timothy Iles is Assistant Professor of Japanese
Studies at the University of Victoria,
British Columbia, Canada, where he teaches Japanese culture, cinema, and
language. He has an MA from the University of British Columbia in Modern
Japanese Literature, and a PhD from the University of Toronto, also in
Modern Japanese Literature. He has taught courses on Japanese literature,
theatre, culture, and cinema in Canada and the United States, and has
published articles on those subjects. He is also author of Abe Kobo: an
Exploration of his Prose, Drama, and Theatre (Fuccecio: European Press
Academic Publishers, 2000), and The Crisis of Identity in
Contemporary Japanese Film (Brill, 2008).